Prism
by Kailey Hamilton
Summary: "That's how you've always known: you're two notes of the same chord, two faces of the same coin. It was enough for late nights in the common room in silent company - you, him, your homework, his broomstick." Percy/Oliver. Oneshot.


_Notes:__ Written in Finnick's honor for the Hunger Games: Fanfic Style Competition II (Prompts used: dialogue, emotion, character, class, and weapon.)_

_Thanks to the lovely **Kelly (HedwigBlack)** for her betaing powers - and without whom this story wouldn't have happened in the first place._

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><p><span><strong>Prism<strong>

Oliver is a flash of blue and gold as he storms out of your fireplace. You look up from your book, perplexed by his mere presence.

He's supposed to celebrate, if the information your radio conveyed was to be trusted. There was a chance that he just wanted to celebrate with you... but something in the stern line his lips make suggests the contrary. You shouldn't be so surprised. Nonetheless, it's a mystery to you how you've gotten to the point of stiff expressions and unwelcome thoughts and, well, you just want to finish your book in peace. For once.

You didn't mind it so much at the very beginning. Back then things were simpler, which means that you understood more. Your little world was earning top marks among the Gryffindors... if it wasn't for Flying Class, that is. Flying lessons were his. You'll never forget the strong boy with his awkward mop of brown hair telling Madame Hooch to _get on with it _and _when are we going to play Quidditch?_ when you could barely utter 'up.'

_Well, that class didn't count_, you tell yourself. You weren't _really_ graded there. No one got an OWL in Flying, after all...

You chuckle at the irony. He glares.

But that's how you've always known: you're two notes of the same chord, two faces of the same coin. It was enough for late nights in the common room in silent company - you, him, your homework, his broomstick. Enough for him to have his Katie Bell figurine smashed flat by a heavy book. Enough for you to find fingerprints, sticky with broom polish, smudging the ink in your Transfiguration essay. Enough for him to find numbers and equations where his notes should've been, while you turn in Quidditch tactics to Professor Vector.

If you ever mistook his clothes for yours, however, no one found out.

Soon enough you'd study with him to_ at least get you a few NEWTs, Wood. You could manage pretty advanced Charms if you cared..._

Soon enough he'd teach you to stay on a broom to _at least be referee when you play with your brothers, but I swear on my Cleansweep that you could be a fine Chaser if you cared..._

And you would learn, Percy. You learned each other perfectly - bodies, souls, quirks, secrets. Two dialects of the same language. A synchronized dissonance, eerily harmonious.

Or off-key.

"You laughed," he points out.

You wonder when, in the twelve years you've known each other, did greetings become unnecessary. You do rise to meet his level, however, giving up on a quiet night in. You're standing at arm's length and yet, it feels like miles apart.

"Can't I laugh?"

He shrugs. "I just don't see what's so funny."

"Oliver..." You sense the storm coming, but are powerless to stop it.

"You weren't there today."

"Like you care about what I do," you retort. It's unfair, maybe, but you just can't keep having that discussion over and over.

"That's right, Percy. I tried to, but I don't care."

It stings, doesn't it?

"It's not like you to be so cruel, Oliver."

You notice it now. He's shaking, shaking like something inside of him was threatening to tear him open. Him, with seams so tight that made him burst. You haven't seen him so positively furious since McGonagall cancelled Quidditch in your sixth year.

That is saying a lot.

"Don't you dare," he says, his low voice trembling dangerously. "Not this time."

"Don't I dare what?"

"Don't turn this on me. Just... shut up."

His words are bullets when yours are venom. And you're ready to bite.

"I get a say in this. You're my-"

"Not anymore." Oliver clenches his fists, somehow making his speech appear less charged. "Cruel, Percy? _I'm_ cruel?"

"You just said you don't care."

"You don't think- you can't think that maybe it's you."

He won't say _it's not you, it's me._ You almost resent him for not lying, just this once, when you would really need it.

"You can't expect me to go to every single-"

"You wouldn't go altogether if I didn't ask, and even then... even then-" He runs both hands through his hair, tugging at it slightly. "And you could expect me to go to your Ministry dinners, anyway. Just once, Percy. Once would've been enough."

"I'm not ashamed of you, if that's what you're suggesting."

Oliver is all raised eyebrows, deep breaths, and averted eyes just now and you _just_ _don't get it. _That's one script you both know by heart. It should be the same. Except it's not, because he's blurting out clumsy facts that you can only scramble to put together. They spell finality.

You can't accept finality. Not once more. Not with Oliver.

"I can fix this," you plead. You're trying to protect him. You're trying to protect _you_. He doesn't care that he's a corner puzzle piece stubbornly aiming for the center and for once, just this once, you're willing to try to make him fit. "I can fix this, Oliver."

"I... I can't." For once, you're rendered speechless. He takes advantage of the moment. "I know you're not ashamed and I know... I know it's not that you don't care, okay? But we both deserve someone who takes pride on us. We can't be that for each other."

You hear it as clear as he must've been repeating it to himself in his head, over and over. It's as difficult for you to hear as it is, you suspect, for Oliver to say.

It all comes down to this, doesn't it?

There are no comments about his big brown eyes, always making you fall back into him. No remarks about your sly silver tongue always doing him in. No hungry kisses or intertwined fingers. No talks about sweet love or the good old days. No wearing Quidditch jumpers by mistake or finding your glasses behind his bed.

Those days are over.

It washes over you, clearing the mist in your mind. You're too proud to beg, and it strikes you as the wrong course of action, anyway. You've been too close to losing it all to risk losing him altogether. You can at least retain your dignity and give him respect.

"It was easier when we didn't _have_ to care. We just did." You reach out to him, your fingers against his cheek. He flinches, but doesn't resist the touch otherwise. "What happened to us?"

You search Oliver's eyes, his lips, the lines on his face for an answer. You won't beg. Your eyes plead. You know, Percy, that he has the answer. He's unwilling, or unable, to share it.

He just shakes his head.

"Goodbye, Percy. Thanks for understanding."

Now it's you who doesn't have words, even though he lingers for them. They're stuck in your throat. You feel that, if you let them out, they will steal your heart. You can't do this goodbye. The air inside your lungs feels toxic. Your limbs feel heavy.

No more words cut the air before the fire steals him away from you, and you let yourself fall into the sofa when he's gone. The book you were reading, which laid open, falls and closes with a dull thud. The pain in your chest grows to engulf all your body, wrenching a loud sigh out of you. So that's it. Two colors of the rainbow; white light breaking apart. The two kings of a game of chess, you reckon. As that thought flickers in and out of life, you close your eyes, wondering if there was ever a chance of winning.

But here's the thing, Percy - did you really lose?


End file.
